That is the only pitiless part of death, it seems to me. We
have had the friendship, the love, the sympathy, and these are
things that can never die; they have made us what we are, and they
are by their very nature immortal; yet we would come near to
bartering all these spiritual possessions for the 'touch of a
vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still.'
How could I ever think life easy enough to be ventured on alone! It
is so beautiful to feel oneself of infinite value to one other human
creature; to hear beside one's own step the tread of a chosen
companion on the same road. And if the way be dusty or the hills
difficult to climb, each can say to the other, 'I love you, dear;
lean on me and walk in confidence. I can always be counted on,
whatever happens.'
Chapter XIX. 'In ould Donegal.'
'Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn!
Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin;
Pow'rfulest preacher and tenderest teacher,
And kindliest creature in ould Donegal.'
Alfred Perceval Graves.
Coomnageeha Hotel,
In Ould Donegal.
It is a far cry from the kingdom of Kerry to 'ould Donegal,' where
we have been travelling for a week, chiefly in the hope of meeting
Father O'Flynn. We miss our careless, genial, ragged, southern
Paddy just a bit; for he was a picturesque, likable figure, on the
whole, and easier to know than this Ulster Irishman, the product of
a mixed descent.
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